


anchorage

by Anonymous



Series: Danse Macabre [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 10:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10187687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Finn tries not to talk about it, the Academy. He's alive and that's what matters most.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually post my stormpilot drabbles on here because they're all kind of shit (primarily because I have NO SKILL in writing Poe correctly,) but this one has a lot of meaning to me in particular, so I hope it isn't all bad.
> 
> anchorage fits in with my larger AU (danse macabre) which is primarily kylux, but does not need to be read in order to understand this oneshot.

**anchorage**

 

Finn’s life has felt more than chaotic lately; rather, it’s felt overwhelming, stretching him over himself to the point of complete wreckage, always uncertain, always  _ aching.  _ And it’s worse, he thinks, that he can’t even tell what’s gone wrong to begin with; can’t decide whether it’s the bone-deep exhaustion he feels when he climbs the stairs to his apartment each evening, whether it’s the customers at the cafe snapping at him for adding  _ too much  _ or  _ too little  _ syrup, whether it’s the memories that have been threaded into his core so tightly they’re beginning to suffocate him…

Too often it approaches this point, a precipice of uncertainty cast like a wooden beam across a bottomless pit of self-loathing. It’s like being forced to walk a plank, to take a leap off the edge and tumble to his death once and for all.

And constantly, without end, Finn teeters on the edge of it, wavering between the cacophony of voices, those words demeaning him and  _ spitting  _ on him, calling  _ traitor, traitor, you’re worthless, you’re a waste, bleed out and die like the scum you are… _

… but it always settles. There’s a calm, an ebbing tide that casts him through with warmth when he wakes-- not in an uncomfortable bunk beneath a flickering fluorescent light, not on his  _ knees,  _ bent over and clutching at his purpled abdomen and the bruises spreading along his spine. No, here he’s safe. Safe, with the gentle affection of a soft hand along his cheek, a blanket being tucked around his stiff shoulders at the end of the day, a word of praise whispered in his ear as he sits before his desk until late in the evening, running down the details of math problems in his head.

_ Poe,  _ Finn thinks, and then he decides,  _ no, no, you can’t let go, not like this, not  _ now.

And so he backs away from the pit, settles into himself, into the  _ modernity  _ and monotony of daily life, where he doesn’t need to hold a weapon.

Here, in reality, Finn doesn’t need to prostrate himself on the ground before his superiors and _clean the mess from their boots,_ he doesn’t have to _plead_ for mercy in his own head, night after night, _no more no more no more!_ He isn’t being told to sit for hours in a dark room, and he doesn’t even consider stifling his breathing under the blankets at night. Before, he had to try to force himself to relax, try not to _think_ about the other cadets walking in, berating him, beating the living hell out of him with their fists, books, crude-cut batons…

He stops; pauses, blinks. Pulls back from the monsters of his mind and into himself, removing his thoughts from the vault of misfortune tightly anchored in the deepest recesses of his memory, settling onto the well-worn leather of a beat-up couch.

Finn tries not to talk about it, the Academy. At least not when he can help it… because he doesn’t want to  _ taint  _ Poe.

Especially not when the man’s here, right  _ here,  _ nuzzled up at his side with an arm thrown over Finn’s waist, face pressed along the crook of his neck. Poe drools when he sleeps, and Finn half thinks he should be amused by it; amused by the thought that, somehow, the saliva that clings to his shirt in the morning has become an  _ endearing  _ thing. 

Just as endearing as the messy slew of shirts tossed onto the end of their bed the night before a party, or the squeezed-to-the-last-drop tube of toothpaste that Poe  _ somehow  _ always forgets to close. Because it’s here, it’s present, it’s a  _ reminder  _ that he’s got someone at his side, someone who cares enough to stick with him through the array of terrors that accompany his daily routine. He hates it, really, he always has, but he can’t  _ stop  _ thinking, can’t keep himself from waking up in the night with his mouth open in a dying scream, clutching about in need for a pocket knife that isn’t there, hoping that  _ maybe, this time, maybe I can defend myself. _

Finn considers it surreal, on some level, to be here. To be alive, trying to move on-- acting as if he’s  _ allowed to--  _ after the conditioned behaviors were drilled into his brain…

_ no sitting, no speaking, no eating, not until after, not until later, set time, always on the clock, spineless, 2187, worthless, incapable, compassionate, passion won’t get you  _ anywhere  _ in the real world _

He stops, bites his lip; tilts his head and slides an arm back to ruffle through Poe’s hair. The soft, chocolate waves spill over his forehead, and Finn thinks about how much he loves Poe… how much  _ Poe  _ loves  _ him. _

He doesn’t want to run away from this. Fuck, he doesn’t want to run away ever again.

Poe startles, raises his head. 

“Hey, bab’s.”

“Hey,” Finn pauses, scrambles for words in an effort to get ahold of his muddled head. “Sleepyhead. Good dreams?”

“N’ when you’re worried.” Poe leans forward, hugs the younger man tight to his chest as their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces; back to chest, hips touching, legs tangled around legs. “Talk to me, man. You good?”

“Better.”  _ Now, at least,  _ Finn considers.  _ With you here. Alive. Close. _

“Finn.” Poe gives him a  _ look.  _ His fingers fumble for his lover’s in the dark, stopping to pull a calloused hand up to his own chest. Reverently, he kisses the back of bruised knuckles, voice a myriad of concern and empathy. “Talk to me, love.”

“Memories,” Finn answers. “Lots of them-- not… not the worst.”

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Poe questions, throwing himself halfway over Finn’s chest to make a desperate reach for his phone. “It’s… not even ten yet. We could watch a romcom.”

“Hux says they rot your brain,” Finn mumbles, though the idea of a film that’s practically ninety percent fluff  _ does  _ seem appealing, at least for the moment.

“Hux watches  _ documentaries,”  _ Poe reminds him, and Finn’s nose crinkles in disgust.

“Okay, yeah. You got me there.”

Poe kisses the top of his head-- it’s chaste, not enough to  _ push,  _ not even enough to be inappropriate, to go against rules-- and Finn reaches around, grabs him by the shirtfront, drags him closer. He contemplates what he’s even doing with his life, what he’s doing by  _ existing,  _ milling about without a plan, day in and day out. 

And then, he thinks, _it doesn’t really matter._ He’s happy, isn’t he? He deserves-- ( _no, never, you defied your purpose, you betrayed your family--) no,_ _he deserves_ to be happy. 


End file.
